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DAWN WIND 



DAWN WIND 



BY 
ROBERT LOUIS SMITH-WALKER 



WITH A FOREWORD BY 
H. H. CURTEIS 

AND AN INTRODUCTION BY 
MARIE MAPLES PRESTON 



THE MIDLAND PRESS 

IOWA CITY, IOWA 

1922 






COPYRIGHT 1922 BY 
SMITH E. WALKER 



FEB 23 '23 

)C1AG0S434 



ROBERT LOUIS SMITH-WALKER 

JUNE 19, 1903 SEPTEMBER 4, 1921 









Qil^^L—^ 



CONTENTS 

Foreword, by H. H. Curteis . . . . . i 

Introduction, by Marie Maples Preston . . iv 

Dawn Wind . 1 

Invocation . . . 3 

Chant d'Automne 4 

Memories 5 

Willow Twigs . . . 6 

Eidolon . 7 

L'Ephemere 8 

Treasures . 9 

Recollection: Nocturne . . . . . . 10 

Poem for a Picture : Temptation . . . .11 

Beauty 12 

Hiatus 14 

Death 15 

Future .16 

Nocturne 17 

Atalanta in Brooklyn 18 

Gold 19 

Foiled 20 

Ballet Russe 21 

Japonesques 22 

Incense 24 



contents 

Pierrette Wears Crepe 25 

The Hermit 26 

To A Little House in Avalon 28 

I Stand Alone in the Halls of Time ... 30 

Marooned 32 

The Long Wave Arches 33 

Realization 34 

I Have Always Wanted to Be King ... 36 

Awakening 38 

Little Sister 40 

Morning Song 41 

Prayer to the Fates 42 

Discovery 44 

The Mirror 45 

Memory Film 48 

Bacchanale 57 

April Desire 58 

I Am Eighteen 60 

To A Night Moth 62 

Logic 63 

The Answer 64 

I Have a Tryst 66 

Fragment 68 

Prayer 69 



FOREWORD 

The poems contained in this little volume are the first 
literary /expression of his thoughts, in verse, by a boy of 
unusual depth of mind, philosophic outlook, and individ- 
uality of character. Written almost entirely during his 
eighteenth year, they give evidence of real promise for a 
future time of maturer development. 

''Dawn Wind" occurred to him on the occasion of an 
Easter camping trip in 1920, at First Water, beneath the 
precipitous heights of Superstition mountain in Arizona. 
One sleeps lightly in that balmy spring air, under the 
brilliant stars of the clear, dry, desert atmosphere; and it 
was seldom that when aroused by the innumerable sounds 
of the night: the barking cry of a distant coyote, the 
movements of our horses, the rustling of the nocturnal 
life of bird, beast, and insect, I did not find him awake 
and watching the great mountain in moonlight and black 
shadow. Thus he became aware of the dawn wind, flow- 
ing cool and crystalline from the upper strata above the 
mountain. 

It was at "The Little House at Avalon" that he had, 
as he said, one of the happiest periods of his life; he refers 



FOREWORD 

to it often in letter and poem. Here in a lovely situation 
on the hillside, with wide windows embowered in flaming 
bougainvillea, commanding glorious views of sea, moun- 
tain, and valley, he was free to think, to observe, to 
expand, and to develop his own personality. He felt in 
better health and spirits than usual, and most of the condi- 
tions were ideal for him : sunshine and warmth, beauty of 
scenery, vivid coloring, ever-changing lights on hill and 
vale, the matutinal music of birds in the eucalyptus grove 
beneath our window, time for study and thought, a small 
library at hand, and withal, plenty of exercise, — daily 
tennis and frequent climbing of the hills. This was his 
great delight, and I can see him standing at the summit 
of the little col at the head of the valley, looking at the 
blue Pacific far below, with the western breeze playing 
through his hair, immersed in the long thoughts of youth. 
A wide and omnivorous reader, possessing an unusually 
retentive memory, he was a delightful companion and a 
most charming correspondent, with a fluency of pen, a 
maturity of style, and a wealth of interest in his letters 
that is rare in these days and altogether exceptional for 
one of his age. He had an intense, even passionate appre- 
ciation of everything artistic, whether of form, color, 
music, or rhythm, and a singularly decided opinion and 
mature judgment. 

n 



FOREWORD 

All who knew this remarkable boy and appreciated the 

many-sided interests of his individuality will sorrow at 

his untimely death. Those to whom he gave his full 

friendship and confidence, to whom he revealed the depth 

and richness of his mind and heart, and the charm of his 

personality, will feel a more real and enduring grief and 

will know that the world is indeed poorer to them. 

Quorum pars sum, 

H. H. CURTEIS 

Valetta, Malta 
December, 1921 



III 



INTRODUCTION 

Robert Louis Smith-Walker was a highly gifted boy 
with a fine mentality and an intense artistic appreciation. 
His intimate friends predicted for him a brilliant future, 
but so varied were his aptitudes that it was impossible to 
foresee which art would finally prevail. 

"Oh, where? By what strange portal shall I enter In 
To all my rich inheritance, my wealth of worlds, 
My wisdom of the spheres?" 

Artistic in all things; interested in pageantry and the 
drama, in color effects and costuming; an ardent inter- 
pretive dancer, 

"The doors are many; shall I choose 
This one or that?" 

The only child of his parents, he was born in Decatur, 
Illinois, where he passed his early years. From childhood 
he traveled extensively throughout this country and Can- 
ada; and attended school in Florida, Arizona and Cali- 
fornia. Thus his naturally observant mind was enriched 
and stimulated by a succession of new scenes, always a 
delight to him. 



IV 



INTRODUCTION 

The poems show a keen love of life and joyousness in 
living. He is exhilarated by a new friend, a lovely view, 
a beautiful picture, a singer's voice. 

"Your love was like a wind that filled my sails 
And sent me skimming through the foam and spray." 

The boy on a camping trip is filled with ecstasy as 

"The moon has cleared the ridge 
And leaped into the sky. 
Some one stirs. 'Exquisite! 
I feel detached. I floated on thin air.' " 

He thrills and rejoices with all living things at the car- 
nival of spring. 

"I want to exult with that little fish-hawk 
Riding the cold, wet wind, still redolent of March. 
I want to splash and dive with the wild ducks 
Among the dead rushes and the blackened lily-pads. 
I want to scream and dance; I thrill 
To the swift urge and magic of the bursting buds." 

The poems show his love of beauty in its varied phases. 
What colorist will not see his own radiant hues reflected 
in such lines as 

"The pool lies: gold and sapphire sheen 
Flecked with silver and striped with green." 



INTRODUCTION 

"The pool then pales to amethyst 
With softened pink and a silver mist." 

What lover of music and the dance is not moved at 
"The strange thud of barbaric drums" 

in Ballet Russe? 

"The cymbals' clash . . . disturbing . . . elemental . . . 
In glowing, fiery colors the dancers leap like flames." 

And is not beauty of line and form vividly suggested in 
the oriental pictures of "Incense" and the striking images 
of "Eidolon"? 

"The clouds have built fantastic palaces 
And battlements on battlement rise through the blue." 

Like Rupert Brooke, he too was beautiful to look upon. 
Like Rupert Brooke, he vi^as a great lover, a lover of 
beauty, of life, of the dear familiar things, of all things 
lovely: v^^ords, books, flow^ers, music, the dance. He 
loved poetry and enjoyed reading it aloud. Among his 
deep enthusiasms were Kipling, Keats, Alan Seeger, 
Rupert Brooke, and Edna St. Vincent Millay. Listening 
to the sympathetic tones of his voice and watching the 
play of his sensitive features, as he entered so intensely 
into the beauty of thought, word, and rhythm, one could 
not help believing that this rarely gifted youth, though 

VI 



INTRODUCTION 

scarcely more than a child in years, had already a place in 
that high company. 

The greatest desire of the thoughtful, contemplative 
boy was that of lofty accomplishment. He asked but the 
boon of a life worthily lived. 

"Lachesis, at your web, hear mcl 
And weave my web 
Firm, yet not tight, and let 
The web be short but wide that men, 
In speaking of me afterward, shall say: 
'He lived!'" 

Marie Maples Preston 

Long Beach, California 
March, 1922 



VU 



DAWN WIND 

The mountains sleep, their shadows furrowed black 

Save where some jutting rock has caught the gleam 

Of the fast fading moon. 

The eerie cry of a lone wolf rings sharp ; 

A sudden hush that penetrates the soul, 

And from the silence, shuddering, expectant, 

The Dawn Wind calls: 

The chill Dawn Wind that sweeps 

The cold, hard cliffs, and moss-grown rocks; 

That quivers through the tall, dead grass 

With whispers as of ghosts that pass and call. 

O, Siren song! O, lure! 



DAWN WIND 

O, Dawn Wind calling through the dawn! 

Fain would I go; glad would I pass, 

Dissolving in the thin gray mist, 

That rises up to meet the sun. 

My naked heart, swept clean, and purged, 

By that swift rush of crystal air 

Leaps ! and with longing greater than tongue can tell 

Follows the Dawn Wind, which has passed. 

Vanished with murmurs, lost forever ... 

Like my hopes. 



INVOCATION 

I bring you incense, Muse: 

The rare fragrance of saffron and musk; 

I burn these at your altar. 

For you I have brought these scarfs 

Of deep-dyed Tyrian purple. 

For you my golden sandals clash 

The white- veined, onyx floor. 

The incense smoke wreathes blue; 
The scarfs drape sinuously; 

And I dance in abandon . . . 
But the Muse sleeps. 



CHANTE D'AUTOMNE 

Comes Autumn, gay with clustered wreaths 
And leopard skins, and scarfs to twine. 
In wild abandon, up and down, 
Flashing and wayward, prodigal, 
She dances; flings her arms to the wind 
And laughs there, with the fauns at play. 
Wild satyrs in the wood, and vine-crowned maids 
Make autumn holiday. 

Gold; gold and purple; red, and calm, cold blue; 
The dancers! But among them all 
Suddenly and without a cry 

Autumn reels, falls, and lies covered by her own bronze 
leaves. 



MEMORIES 

How keen the Dawn-air blowing chill 
Recalls those drowsy woodland scents 
When all the dreaming atmosphere 
Was vibrant with its summer song. 

But now the wind no petal stirs. 

It whirls the leaves 

And mingles autumn's gold with autumn*s dust, 

And deadens, with its piercing cold. 

More happy memories. 



WILLOW TWIGS 

Willow twigs sketch designs like a Japanese print's 

On the flushed sky, down by the river. 

The little long-legged wading-birds, too, 

Have all the qualities of a delicate wood-block. 

But the scene is so dainty, so fragile. 

That it is shattered into bits by any one 

Who tramps with rough-shod feet 

Among the carefully studied clumps of weed, 

Or frightens the birds, 

Or breaks the willows to make fishing poles. 



EIDOLON 

The clouds have built fantastic palaces 
And battlements on battlement rise through the blue- 
Strange melodies ring on forgotten shores 
And glowing colors charge the air; 
And with much stately pomp and pageantry 
Barbaric figures move ... a little while . . . 
Before the sunset fades. 



L'EPHEMERE 

Gold, gold-and-silver in the moonlight, you, like a lily, 
stood. 

And I, poor moth with honey-thirst unslaked, felt 
the swift light closing of your petals; knew 
that they would never open for me again ; knew that I 
might never again drink your sweetness . . . 

My frail and parchment-painted wings fluttered in the 
cold light. 

I sank, and the dews were cold beneath me. 

But from my moss-bed I looked up, and saw you 
white and waxen in the moonlight; gold-and-silver 
like a lily and I died. 



TREASURES 

Like to some idol of rich gold and gems 

Fallen from his high-place, shattered on the ground 

In glorious ruin, 

So has another day fallen from snowy peaks 

And scattered all its glittering jewels at our feet. 



RECOLLECTION: NOCTURNE 

There was a sky of lapis lazuli, 

Pricked with the brilliance of the stars. 

There were ghost mountains, diamond white. 

In the pale blueness of the moon, 

And glittering with the newest snows. 

And there was music, faint and sweet 

And plaintive through the night . . . 

There were a hundred fountains 

Plashing their scented waters soft 

Into a pool as deep 

As our love was to be. 

But that was night and long ago, 

Those sweet arpeggios on a harp . . . 

And then a broken string. 



10 



POEM FOR A PICTURE: TEMPTATION 

A pliant purple robe enfolds her, 
Revealing with each supple movement 

The slender, sensuous grace of her lithe limbs. 

In her blonde hair are twined long ropes of pearls 

Coupled with orchids, in whose dusky depths 

The honeyed dew of death invites all men to sup. 

But in her eyes. . . 

The mystery of a thousand Sphinxes lies. 



11 



BEAUTY 

O, Beauty, I have seen you pass 

A thousand times; sometimes 

I've seen you in the night 

When moonlight steeps the w^aving grain. 

I've seen you in the deep blue pools; 

I've heard you in the summer trees 

And in the river's laughing call. 

Sometimes at sunset I have seen you steal 

And trail your purple robes about you 

Down a hill. 

You come with April's daffodils . 

And the white, showering petals from the bough. 

12 



BEAUTY 

And in the long autumnal rain 

I have seen you wraith-like 

Drift among the trees. 

But always you elude me 

And my search 

Ends in the dust. But there 

Before me in the curve 

Of the brown road, I see you 

Laughing, mocking, ever. 



13 



HIATUS 

Like a clear clarion call the colors of the Dawn sang. 

All the earth seemed new. And all the old desires 

Have faded with the stars . . . 

And do you realize the change? And can you see 

That we are different; we have parted? 

One we were then, who now are two. 

Between us such a gap 

That all the arrows that Love shoots 

Could never fly across it! 



14 



DEATH 

All night the Red Horse grazed upon the hill. . , 

And those who heard him feared, 

And there were few who heard him not. 

All night the village death bell tolled; 

And when dawn came, a thousand corpses 

Row on row, lay whitening in the cold, grey light. 



15 



FUTURE 

Every day in my walk 

I pass an old lady, sitting at a window, 

With her hands folded in her lap, waiting. 

She is always sitting there patiently. 

And I wonder, as I pass, 

What there is so worth-while 

That she waits there, sitting, patiently. 



16 



NOCTURNE 

A new rose-moon has lit the glade, 

A moon whose slender, searching rays 

Incarnadine the lily's cup 

And light the impassioned nightingale. 

Oh! all this vale is filled with ecstasy and song. 

But I stand lonely in the moonlight, 

In my heart the very essence of despair. 

And on the wings of silver moonbeams, 

Light as bits of wind-blown thistledown. 

Dreams of the night . . . and love . . . and you 

Float by. 



17 



ATALANTA IN BROOKLYN 

She hurries down the street, 
Her slender ankles flashing, silken clad. 
On the corner there is a flower-stand 
Where a pale Armenian sells violets; 
She stops — hesitates, bargains a moment; 
Then a tiny boutonniere is hers. 

She is rapturous ; the wood-scent of the violets thrills her. 
Her step is lighter. 
She will be late to work, but she will have her violets. 



18 



GOLD 

People say that dandelions are objectionable 

And dig them out of their lawns 

Leaving ugly holes in the turf. 

Personally, I prefer golden discs scattered on the grass 

Rather than holes. 

Since gold does not grow in my purse, 

It is welcome to grow on my lawn. 



19 



FOILED 

'T is little enough I ask, 

For why should I 

Who have given nothing ask for much? 

One favor, Clotho; Lachesis, one boon. 

But, dread Atropos, I dare not ask you for anything. 



20 



BALLET RUSSE 

The strange thud of barbaric drums. 

The cymbals' clash — disturbing, elemental. 

Crescendo ! Crash ! 

In glowing, fiery colors the dancers leap like flames, 

Quivering flames that throb 

With the music's savagery. 



21 



JAPONESQUES 

In the pool by the wall the willow-tree trails its tenuous 

branches, which move with the movement of the 

water. 
Quietly the dead leaves fall into the dark water . . . 

noiseless . . . circling . . . falling . . . 
Quietly the willow's shadows melt and mingle in lacy 

patterns with the pale blue stars . . . 
And the melancholy cry of the whippoorwill, the song of 

autumn, the death song of the year, floats to me 

from the hill. 



22 



JAPONESQUES 

The moon is like a great white lotus asleep in a dream- 
blue pool. 

The herons stand in the water, sharply etched against 
the curve of the bridge. 

The lanterns are red in the darkness; the coals of the 
incense smoulder and glow . , . 

I cannot see this beauty; I can only sit alone and wave 
my fan of peacock's feathers. 



23 



INCENSE 

Delicate arch of a lacquered red bridge . . . 
And pale-blue herons to their knees 
In deep-blue pools stand motionless. 
A plaintive song of love . . . and from afar, 
Wavering through the shadowy dimness, 
The bronze notes of the temple bells ... 
Waxen magnolias . . . twisted dwarf pines . . 
Cherry blossoms . . . the slender Iris empress 
And a breath of dewy, flower-laden air . . . 



24 



PIERRETTE WEARS CREPE 

I was flirting with Harlequin by the lilac hedge . . 

And Pierrot came . . . Oh, it was awful ! 

He stabbed Harlequin. And Harlequin, 

Just before he died, pierced Pierrot with his rapier. 

Now I am wondering who my next lover will be. 



25 



THE HERMIT 

I live so far — far from the haunts of men 
That I can only guess at what they do. 
I smell their twilight wood-smoke hither blown 
And glimpse their glowing fires through the trees. 
Sometimes I hear their shouts and revelry, 
The splashing of their bodies in the stream; 
I wish — the heart within me burns — I wish 
That I were like them, glad, sporting, and gay, 
And free from care ; then turn I to my woods 
And find such pleasure and such treasure there, 
Such quietness and peace that I disdain 



26 



THE HERMIT 

To wish myself more like them, and I walk 
Beneath my age-old trees, nor turn to look again. 

I am a hermit and I shall not change. 



27 



TO A LITTLE HOUSE AT AVALON 

The little walk, the flight of steps, 
The plants on either side, 
The shaded terrace where we hear 
The whispering of the tide . . . 

The scent of flowers and fragrant trees, 
Birds singing in the vine, 
Why ask for better orchestra 
Than we have when we dine? 



28 



TO A LITTLE HOUSE AT AVALON 

A book of verses on the steps. 
We take our breakfast there, 
And while we drink our coffee, drink 
The flowery, sunny air. 

O, little house at Avalon! 



29 



I STAND ALONE IN THE HALLS OF TIME 

I stand alone in the halls of Time 

Bewildered. Arch on arch the stately corridors 

Stretch down dim vistas; to the end 

Of all my eye can see, there is no end. 

Oh, where? By what strange portal shall I enter in 

To all my rich inheritance, my wealth of worlds, 

My wisdom of the spheres? 

The doors are many; shall I choose 

This one or that? And having made my choice, 

May I repent and turn again? 

Guide Thou my feet, Omnipotent! And keep 

My thoughts within the range of reason. 

30 



I STAND ALONE IN THE HALLS OF TIME 

Give me love, for life sans love is death. 

And give me strength to bear 

The necessary sorrows of man's life. 

And may I never, 

In gazing backward over vanished years, 

Say: "Here I should have done 

Other than that I did." 



31 



MAROONED 

Your love was like a wind that filled my sails 

And sent me skimming through the foam and spray 

Like a gull with silver wings outspread. 

But now the wind has died; the sails hang empty; 

And the waves beat with sickening force against the prow. 

My barque is buffeted with no fair wind 

To bear me onward ; and I sit 

Under the idle sail . . . 

But there, over the purple, surging water, 

Another boat cuts keenly through the waves; 

Another's sails are billowed with the freshening gale. 

The wind that drives the others on has passed me by. 



32 



THE LONG WAVE ARCHES 

The long wave arches, crests, and churns to foam 

On the surf-rounded rocks. 

The poignant cry of a wheeh'ng gull 

Starts melancholy echoes in my lonely heart. 

Nothing beyond: nothing but mist. 

Uncertain, gray, deceptive. 

I have waited long for a glimmer of light 

Far on the mist-veiled water. 

And still I sit alone on the rocks 

Where the wave spray dashes and settles. 



33 



REALIZATION 

When the high moon has sailed her utmost heaven, 
And all the sky is faint and luminous, 
Still pricked by shining points of stars. 
Awakened by the thrill of slow- awakening earth, I lie 
In hushed expectancy, tense silence. 
Waiting the call of the Dawn Wind. 
It comes I I hear it leaping from the crags 
High on the mountain-top. 

It comes! I hear it singing in the rustling weeds. 
Suddenly it has seized me, filled me . . . 
I float! I fly! following the wind. 
And reckless hurl through vacuous space. 

34 



REALIZATION 

The wind has passed, and like a blown, dead leaf I lie. 
The dawning light has quickened. 
In my soul I feel the infinite sadness 
Of another day begun. 



35 



I HAVE ALWAYS WANTED TO BE KING 

I have always wanted to be king. 

Do you think that seems a pretty big thing 

For a boy who is only five? 

Sometimes when my mother 's out 

And nurse has my sisters down on the beach, 

I put away my blocks and toys, 

For they 're too silly for a king ; 

I go to my father's library, and shut the door. 

If it isn't too much trouble, 

I take the brocaded cowl ofi the table 

And put it around me, like a robe of state. 
Then I sit in the high-backed chair: 

36 



I HAVE ALWAYS WANTED TO BE KING 

It is my throne. I give judgment, 

And I sentence criminals and send brave knights 

To rescue lovely ladies shut in towers. 

And I go to war, and fight; 

Of course I always win the battles. 

But I can play king only about once a week, 

Because nurse makes me go with her . . . mostly. 



37 



AWAKENING 

Far on the dim, dark stepp)es 
That stretch forever eastward, 
Where blows the everlasting wind. 

Scarce lighted by the rising sun, 
I stood, 

I knew then all the secrets of the world. 

The future, too, lay bare beneath my gaze; 

And with that age-old wisdom shining in my eyes, 

I turned and sought to rest. 

But still the world pursued me. 

Dread, distorted phantoms came 

And mocked me over the plain, 



38 



AWAKENING 

And tortured me 

With horrors all unspeakable. 

And then you came. 

You laid your hand 

Upon my burning eyes, and straight 

The nightmare vanished, and I woke 

To find the sun was shining on my face 
And it was eight o'clock. 



39 



LITTLE SISTER 

She is the terror of the house — 

But we all love her. 

When she frowns we quake in fear; 

And when she wails we bow in shame. 

She is a tyrant — yes! — 

But we all love her. 



40 



MORNING SONG 

Poised on the world's sheer edge we stand 

Alone in all the glorious gold of Dawn, 
Just you and I. 

Life is all before us, and it holds 

Nothing but treasure, nothing but good. 

Life and the world love us, 

Just you and me. 



41 



PRAYER TO THE FATES 

Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos, 

Stern trinity. 

It is not much I ask, 

Grant it, I pray. 

Clotho! drawing from the mist 

The thread of life, 

1 pray you, sweep not wide your arm 
In drawing mine, but let 

The thread be brief. 

Lachesis, at your web, hear me! 

And weave my web 

Firm, yet not tight, and let 



42 



PRAYER TO THE FATES 

The web be short but wide that men, 

In speaking of me afterward, shall say: 

*'He lived!" 

AtroposI Veiled divinity. 

Fray not my web in cutting; 

Cut it free, and straight. 

Stern trinity, relentless three. 

It is not much I ask. 

Grant it, I pray. 



43 



DISCOVERY 

April! tiny new leaves yellow-green 

Filter the sunlight. Green moss; 

White birch-branches; delicate twigs; new grass; 

And white hawthorn blossoms. 

April! 

A little bronze butterfly on a yellow dandelion. 

Spring is here! 



44 



THE MIRROR 

Like a black opal, luminous 

With glowing inner fire, 

A little pool lies sheltered by a rock. 

Often in spring when the capricious winds, 

That sing and make harps of the twisted pines, 

Have called me out, 

I follow down the little ledge of stone 

And on the rock, emerald with moss and fern, 

I sit and watch the pool. 

Here have I sat when amber Dawn, 

Preluded by an awakening breeze, 

Stirred golden ripples on the water. 

45 



THE MIRROR 

Here have I seen the potent sun 

Pour molten gold on to the rock 

Yet leave the pool in dark blue mystery. 

Often I Ve watched the carmine clouds 

At sunset pale the dark pool to amethyst 

And silver pink. 

But the full sorcery of water lies 

When all about 's enfolded in the velvet cloak 

Of darkness. 

Only the pool 

Is powdered with the dust of stars 

That gleam and quiver in its depths. 

Here I gaze, spellbound by beauty, 

Till the Dawn has penetrated the night's dusky 

labyrinth, 
And the moon fades in growing light. 

46 



THE MIRROR 

The pool knows all my secrets; 

All my moods have been reflected on its ripples. 



47 



MEMORY FILM 

The last supplies. Final additions. 
The wagon ready. 

Then the packs set on the pack horse. 
Careful balance. 
Straps. Buckles. Tugging. 
"Oh damn! Stand still, you fool!" 

Boxes. Canvas. Rope wound in and out. 
Harness then: 

"The collar's upside down." 

"Who's doing this?" 

The saddles. Girths. 

Bridle chains. A canteen hung to the horn. 

48 



MEMORY FILM 

Slickers. Sweaters. Soap. 

Personal kit rolled up and tied 

And slung across the skirts. 

Flies. A restive horse. 

Remarks. Derision. Grins from those lined up 

To watch the process. 
"Hot daisy! What a trip!" 
"I wouldn't go with them 

Into the desert for a million bucks!" 

At length the start. 
Grating of wagon wheels. 
Monotonous clip-clop of horses' hoofs. 

Relief. "My, but it 's good to get away!" 

"No worries now." 

Hot sun, intensely hot, 
Reflected by the desert. 

49 



MEMORY FILM 

Green, tall cactus by the road 

And deadly cholla, white with thorns. 

Pitiless heat. Unbuttoned flannel shirts. 

Desert Wells. A drink. 

Greedy horses gulping down their water. 

A momentary rest. Relief of shade. 

Finally on the way again. 

Blue mountain ridges through the waves of heat. 

Scrunch through the sand. 
A rattle. 
"My canteen. And Johnnie! 

Did you bring the axe?" 
Gaps. Noise of breaking. 
Road bestrewed with pots and kettles. 
"Damn you, Buttercup!" 
Repairs. Frail rope. 

50 



MEMORY FILM 

"There. That'll hold!" 

Jog. Silence. Jog. 

Mountains. Eternity. 

Crags loom nearer as sunset fades. 

At length the twenty-first mile post. 

Leaving the road. Finding the trail. 

The greasewood olive green and dark, 

In sunset's light. 

Rattle. Louder. 
"My soul! how can the wagon stand this trail?" 

A scream of brakes. "Whoa!" 

Mind the packs ! The path 's so tippy." 
Lashing up. Cracking down. 
Click of hoofs against the rocks. 
Brush of greasewood on the pack. 
Smells: sage and torn weeds, 

51 



MEMORY FILM 

Saddle blankets, horse. 

Pulling up hills. 
"Whoa ! Easy now. Let 's rest a bit." 

A dismal hollow. Rocks. Cactus. 

Ghostly shadows. 

Winnowing of swift nocturnal wings. 

Twilight fading. Weird cries. 

Others far ahead. Sudden qualm. 

Canter up behind. 
"Hey, wait a minute!" 
"Hurry up. It 's only half a mile." 

Interval. 

First stars. Only a red cloud, 

Low on the dark horizon, 

Is left of all the glaring day; 

And it is darkening. 

52 



MEMORY FILM 

Gleam of dusky water 

Glittering under scrubby trees, 

And the low laugh of that rare stream. 
''Here we are, back again. 
"How nice the old place looks." 
"Bob, we '11 unpack, while you get supper." 

Dismounting. Saddles and harness off. 

The pack unstrapped and dumped. 

The wagon rolled to its appointed place. 

Boxes removed. Store of supplies 

Set by the rude stone fireplace. 

A fire first. 

Paper. Kindling. Brush. 
Three attempts to strike a match. 
Smoke. Smouldering. A blaze. 
"All right, now. Where 's the can opener ?" 

53 



MEMORY FILM 

"Good Lord! we've not forgotten it again?" 

Commotion. 

Horses watered. Slobber. 

Sweat wiped off with torn-up weeds. 

The grain poured out on saddle blankets. 

Loud whinnies. Champing lips. 

Pawings and squeals. 

Browsing. 

Appetites. Gleaming faces round the fire. 

Food: beans, bacon, strawberry jam 

Spread an inch thick on hunks of bread. 

The camping zest lends relish. 
"My soul! if you eat all the jam tonight 

What will we do tomorrow?" 

Greasy plates. Forks. Spoons. 

Messy pans scattered about. 

54 



MEMORY FILM 

*^Ugh! leave them till morning." 
Laziness. Indolence. 
Fire glow. Trees stand out 
Brilliantly lit by darting flames, 
Then fade into the shadowy darkness. 
Sounds of night: the plashing ripple of the stream, 
The bull frogs* chorus, furtive calls. 
Each seems wrapped in his own thoughts. 
Reverie. Fire dying. 
Embers. Tiny blue licking flames. 
From the gold aura over the dark blue ridge 
The moon's first silver tip 
Pushes up through the mountains. 
Stars glitter in the water. 
The soft light grows. 

Against the silver disk the branches pattern 

55 



MEMORY FILM 

Dark and slender, waving in the night breeze. 

The spell of night is on us. 

Each upturned face is pale with softened light. 

Noises stop. 

All watch the tremulous beauty of the moon. 

A few hushed words. Another silence. 

The moon has cleared the ridge 

And leaped into the sky. 

Some one stirs. "Exquisite! 

I feel detached. I floated on thin air!" 

The broken spell. Remembrance of the weary ride. 

Stretchings. Yawns. Pulling oflF boots. 

A muffled conversation. 

Quiet. Thoughts. Final oblivion. 

And the moon sails on. 

56 



BACCHAxNALE 

Spring's cup of wine is at our lips, 
And ivy crowns our hair, 
Satyr with white nymph dancing, 
Rustle the vine-leaves there. 

All in the spring's blue twilight glow 
Flashing of leopard skins. 
Laughter that ripples and echoes 
Light, as the night begins. 

With lilting music through the air 
And starry blossoms white, 
Softly and rustling in the shade, 
We pass into the night. 



57 



APRIL DESIRE 

How can I stay indoors today? 

Out there, through the woods, over the creek and down 

A little, hidden, unknown path, 

A patch of violets is about to bloom. 

I want to be there: 

I want to kneel on the damp, spongy earth, 

To search with my fingers in the mould 

For violet buds. 

The little leaves, tiny and new. 

Outline with red the black, bare branches; 

And against the sky 

The willow twigs gleam white. 

58 



APRIL DESIRE 

There 's something in the air today 

That calls me out. 

I want to exult with that little fish-hawk 

Riding the cold, wet wind, still redolent of March. 

I want to splash and dive with the wild ducks 

Among the dead rushes and the blackened lily-pads. 

I want to scream and dance; I thrill 

To the swift urge and magic of the bursting buds. 

Oh, what a world of promise is outside! 

How can I stay indoors today? 



59 



I AM EIGHTEEN 

There are seventeen doors behind me, 

And I am about to shut the eighteenth 

And open the nineteenth. 

So there are eighteen rooms, one for each year. 

Some of them have been dull ; some tiresome to cross. 

I cannot see how many doors are ahead of me, 

Or how many rooms I must cross 

Before, opening the last door, I shall pass 

Into the dark closet that is death. 

There are several people who have come through with me; 

My mother, my father, and a few friends. 

Every once in a while some one drops out 

60 



I AM EIGHTEEN 

Or a new one joins us. 

This progress through the rooms — Oh! how stupid- 
Come, here 's the door marked *'19". Let 's open it. 



61 



TO A NIGHT MOTH 

Frail and ethereal spirit of the dusk, 

Who rides on billows of the scented air 

With wings more gorgeous than a parchment of old, 

Beauty too subtle for a name, 

Come, bringing me fantasies . . . dreams of the darkness. 



62 



LOGIC 

First comes Life, and then comes Love, 
But Death comes last of all 
To bind and heal the cuts the others made 
And kiss us into soft oblivion. 



63 



THE ANSWER 

What is all this I have been so foolishly saying? 

Why have I raved so long? 

What will my words amount to when the world 

Has crumbled into silence and decay? 

The answer: Nothing. 

All my passions shall vanish with the wind; 

And all my fires burn to ashes, cold and still, 

Yet some day, some one, digging in the dust 

And ruin of an ancient tomb. 

May lift these tattered pages from the wreck; 

And look on them with puzzled brow 

And take them to some tall museum, 



64 



THE ANSWER 

And there place them under glass, 
Where they'll be wondered at, 
Just as I wonder now. 



6S 



I HAVE A TRYST 

I have a tryst with a deep blue pool, 
Up in the rocks where the winds blow cool. 
There at the base of a sheltering rock, 
The pool lies: gold and sapphire sheen, 
Flecked with silver and striped with green. 

I watch by the pool when amber dawn 
Mottles the water with gold, like a fawn; 
And the Dawn Wind sings in the twisted trees, 
And the potent sun, as he waxes bold, 
Turns all the pool to molten gold. 



66 



I HAVE A TRYST 

At evening when the sky is flushed 
And all the day sounds are still and hushed 
And the birds are silent in silent pines, 
The pool then pales to amethyst 
With softened pink and a silver mist. 



67 



FRAGMENT 

Emerald pools with drowsy-floating lotus, 

Hum of insects, perfumed air, 

Soft winds, and rippling foliage. 

But I am sick among the lilies, and my heart 

No faster pulses at the calling of the birds. 

I turn; my heart aches, and I laugh. 

I turn, and laughing, weep. 



68 



PRAYER 

As the soft tide down on Atlantis bore, 
So let Death come to me with opal-jeweled feet 
To wrap me in her rainbow mantle, drowsy-sweet, 

And lay me where slow waves lap Lethe's shore. 



69 



Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: Oct. 2009 

PreservationTechnologies 

A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION 
1 1 1 Thomson Park Dnve 



